Distant Dreams

by Jenny Lykins

  *******

  He came slowly awake, his mind muzzy and reluctant, as if he’d consumed a potent drug or liquor. The vague notion occurred to him that perhaps she had, indeed, drugged him. After all, he had no idea what manner of ingredient she’d put in those pellets.

  Though the thought should have been alarming, he found even more interesting the realization that his stomach no longer heaved. He lay there and tested it, noted the ever-constant rock of the ship, watched the lantern swing back and forth.

  Saint’s blood, he found the experience most relaxing.

  He rolled to his back and drowsily considered a possible apology to his odd little wife.

  Thinking of her, he wondered where the devil she’d gone. Through the porthole, stars still glittered in a black velvet sky. She’d damned well better not be cavorting on deck with the duty crew.

  He threw aside a quilt which had not been covering him earlier, grumbling about the lamp left burning low. When he moved to rise, he heard a sound that made him freeze. With part dread, part disbelief, he rolled over and looked behind him.

  Oh, yes. He should have known.

  He closed his eyes and forced air in and out of his lungs in a somewhat regular rhythm, while every square inch of him suddenly developed a fever that had nothing to do with illness.

  Her lashes fanned across her cheeks in sleep, her hair tumbled in piles of rich, shiny curls on the pillow. One hand nestled under her jaw while the other rested on the edge of the quilt at her chin.

  He had never seen anything so heart-stoppingly beautiful in his life.

  He couldn’t pry his gaze from the sweet tranquility of her face. From the full, rose-colored lips. From the long, ivory column of her neck or the mounds of auburn curls begging to be crushed in masculine hands.

  Or the slow, regular pulse in her throat begging for his lips to send it racing.

  His own pulse raced out of control. His arms ached to scoop her up and nestle her close. His fingers tingled to trace the outline of her mouth and to explore every inch of her soft, satiny body.

  A lone spirally curl lay across her cheek, gently caressing the skin he so desperately wanted to touch. Without consciously planning to, he reached up and smoothed away the errant lock. The moment his hand touched her skin a lightning bolt of fire seared through his body, spearing him in his soul.

  He closed his eyes and treasured the feeling. How long had it been since a woman fanned such an all-consuming flame? Never had he thought to savor such sweet, aching torment.

  She sighed, and her warm, gentle breath ghosted across his face. The need to touch her grew in his chest until it became a physical pain.

  He wished now, with all his heart, that he had taken her on their wedding night. Taken her then and a hundred times since. They were married, after all. Man and wife. There was no reason why he should not take her now. Indeed, it was unnatural to lie there and gaze at his wife, yearn to feel her in his arms, yet leave her untouched.

  He gazed at her, drank in the sight of her as he drew nearer and nearer. Should he gently wake her first? Or let the heat of his kisses rouse her from her slumber? Perhaps a warm, slow caress across -

  She drew in a deep, full breath, then released a yawn so forceful he vowed he could see her tonsils. She stretched until she quivered, yawned again, then opened her eyes.

  Their noses all but touched.

  A sleepy little smile curved her lips. “Hi,” she said in her odd vernacular. “Feeling better?”

  Feeling better? Was he feeling better? When his body still burned with a fever? Screamed for release? When his hand still hovered, poised beneath the covers to awaken her in the most pleasant of manners?

  “Helllooo?” she said, raising her glorious, tousled head so that she was no longer a blur at the end of his nose. “Didn’t the Dramamine help?”

  He looked up at her, her hair haloed in the dim light of the lamp, and waited for his body to calm so his voice would not be husky with want.

  “Maybe you need a couple more. You were pretty green.”

  She flung back the quilt and climbed over him, as if he were nothing more than a…a…

  “Shaelyn!” he roared, leaping to his feet.

  She yelped and bounced against the desk, sending papers fluttering to the floor and a tumbler of water exploding into the air.

  “What the devil are you wearing?” he bellowed, marching to the oil lamp and turning up the wick.

  She leaned against the desk, her chest heaving, her hands clutching her heart as she looked down at the billowy shirt and snug trousers clinging to her body.

  She looked back at him as if he were insane.

  “You gave me heart failure to ask me that?” she said, then shook water droplets from that ridiculous mass of hair.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded again in a voice that would rattle windows.

  “I’m wearing your shirt and your cabin boy’s pants! What does it look like I’m wearing?” she bellowed back. “Or did you expect me to wear my one and only dress on this voyage, tripping over coils of rope and snagging it on every stupid thing I pass?” She yanked up a handful of the gown draped across the back of a chair and shook it at him. “This thirty yards of dress isn’t exactly designed for schlepping around the decks of ships.”

  “Schlepping?” he sputtered. “Schlepping? What the hell does schlepping mean? And where in hell do you come from, Shaelyn, that you wear men’s trousers, think nothing of falling asleep in any man’s bed, and use words like schlepping?”

  She sucked in her breath as if he’d slapped her, then flung away the handful of gown and advanced on him.

  “I come from 1999, bubba. From a time when women can wear comfortable clothes without some prude gasping in puritanical shock, even though I have more skin covered than any evening gown your virginal women wear. I come from a time,” she extended her index finger and poked him in the chest, “when an exhausted woman can fall asleep after caring for a sick male without some tight-assed, dirty-minded man who’s probably had carnal knowledge with more women than he can count turning it into a cardinal sin.”

  “Do not poke me again,” he warned.

  She jabbed him that much harder. “Do not tell me what to do,” she mimicked his tone.

  He grabbed her hands and yanked her to his chest. She glared up at him, and he moved just in time to miss her upraised knee. Newly born anger mixed with the lust that had not yet died. He covered her mouth with his, searching for her tongue, kissing her in a way that made women whimper for more. The whimpers never came and the tongue that he found failed to respond. He increased his efforts, gentling, pulling her closer, cradling her with exquisite tenderness. His body pulsed with need, ached for release. He forgot about dominating her, forcing a reaction from her, and simply gave to her with unselfish abandon.

  And still she did not respond. Finally he raised his head to gaze down at her, his mind mourning the loss of her mouth against his, an apology on his lips.

  She slapped him with such force he staggered backward. By the time the pinpricks of light had cleared from his sight, the cabin door had slammed behind her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Shaelyn strolled the length of the deck, pointedly ignoring the existence of Alec Hawthorne. The absolute nerve of the man! Yanking her to him and forcing his kisses, like some kind of Cro-Magnon. Even if she did have to use every ounce of willpower not to respond. It was the principle. And where had he neatly tucked his thoughts of Faith while he was practicing his caveman tactics on Shaelyn?

  Every now and then she would catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to be oblivious of her, but she had a feeling he was as studiously ignoring her as she was him. When he’d appeared on deck a good thirty minutes after she’d slapped him, when the dim gray light of dawn crept over the horizon, a faint, rosy hue still colored his cheek.

  “Well, lassie, you’re looking hale and hearty this glorious morn. The sea air has brought
a bloom to your fair skin.” Captain Finley strolled up to her and they both paused at the rail.

  She smiled up at the burly, weathered seaman. The ocean breeze lifted her hair and tossed it about as she stared out at the endless expanse of rolling blue.

  “I apologize for our setting sail and trapping you onboard, lass. I know the ladies prefer a little time to plan for a voyage.”

  Shae smiled and turned to the captain.

  “Oh, I’m a lot more resilient than the average lady today.”

  His gaze flickered past her clothing before he smiled around the stem of his pipe.

  “I daresay, lassie. I daresay.”

  “Miss Shaelyn, ma’am.” Jimmy, the cabin boy whose britches she wore, came trotting up to her and the captain. “Mr. Harker sent me to fetch you if you want him to show you how he mends the sails.”

  “Here now, Master Jim,” Captain Finley barked. “How dare you be calling the lady by her Christian name? You address her properly or I’ll have ye - ”

  “It’s all right, Captain. I’ve asked all the men to call me Shaelyn.” She patted him on the arm. “I’m not one to stand on formalities.”

  “Well, then,” he grumbled. “If you wish it so.”

  She gave him her best innocent smile and he softened his glare toward Jimmy. The young boy shifted back and forth, obviously anxious to lead her away and remove himself from the captain’s scrutiny.

  “Would you excuse us, sir?” she asked. “I believe I’m late for a sail-mending lesson.”

  Jimmy led her to the grizzled old sailor who’d promised to let her watch him. She’d spent the evening before and all of that morning roaming the decks, making friends, asking questions, doing what she did best…collecting information. She had promises from half a dozen crewmembers to show her all they knew.

  An hour sped by as Mr. Harker instructed her in 1830 sail-mending. His gravelly voice encouraged her in her endeavors even as he sprinkled his speech with profanities, which he apparently viewed as polite conversation. Several times she had to turn a giggle into a cough to hide her amusement at the colorful old salt.

  It seemed like no time at all before Jimmy returned to collect her for the noon meal.

  “Mr. Ort sets a fine table for the crew,” the boy jabbered happily as he led her across the deck. “He can take flour with more bugs than an anthill and still bake - ”

  “Oh, criminy, Jimmy,” she groaned. “That’s way more information than I want to hear.”

  Jimmy blushed and gulped, his eyes wide with apology.

  “Oh, we ain’t got no meal bugs in the flour yet. We always got fresh food on these short little trips. It’s the longun’s that’ll have you sniffing your meat before you - ”

  “Okay, okay.” She clamped a hand over his mouth. “I get the picture.”

  Just as she thought it might be time for a couple more Dramamine, she caught sight of Alec hovering near the rail at the helm. That lovely pale shade of green suffused his face again. Captain Finley called to him, motioning him toward the wheel. Alec cast a look back toward the rail, then straightened his shoulders and marched toward the captain just as Jimmy led her into the depths of the ship.

  *******

  The ship’s bow rose several feet with the swelling wave, then dropped like a stone only to rise again. Alec’s stomach mirrored the movements. He wondered which was worse, seeing the horizon bob up and down in the daylight, or simply feeling the deck heave beneath him in the dark of night.

  The earlier calm seas had given way to roiling turbulence. They’d sighted the approaching storm before sundown, and Alec’s stomach had grown queasier with each passing moment.

  He leaned over the stern’s rail and dry-heaved again until his chest ached and his knees threatened to buckle. When he straightened, it was all he could do not to shake like a quivering infant.

  That did it. Humbling himself and asking Shaelyn for more of those pellets couldn’t possibly be worse than what he was going through at the moment. And from the toss of the sea, he would get worse before he got better.

  He made his way belowdecks, clinging to the stair rail for dear life, then staggering the last few feet to his cabin door. A cheery, yellow light seeped from the crack beneath the door, but he heard no sounds from within. Had she fallen asleep with the lamp burning again? Did the woman never extinguish a light before retiring?

  He raised his fist to knock just as the lurching ship threw him against the door with a solid thud. As he bounced off the thick wood and tried to regain his footing, he heard her cheerful, perky voice call, “Come in.”

  For just the briefest of moments he considered going back up on deck and suffering the storm in his usual manner, but a well-timed, sickening roll of his stomach convinced him otherwise. He lifted the latch and shoved his way through the door.

  She sat - or rather sprawled - in his leather chair, bathed in the golden light of the oil lamp, one britches-clad leg draped most indelicately over the arm, a book propped against her knee. How the devil did the woman read with the ship rolling over ever-growing waves? And did she have no sense of decency?

  She looked up at him, an expectant smile on her face, then the smile disappeared.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  She went back to reading her book.

  He tried to roll with the ship when he walked into the cabin. The effort only rocked his stomach and erased any lingering thoughts he had of not asking for her help. He propped a hip atop his desk and tried to look casual.

  “Do you have any more of those pellets?” he asked in his best conversational voice.

  She raised her eyes to his, conveying her irritation at having her reading interrupted. After pointedly glaring at him for several seconds, she reached behind her and plucked the black leather pouch attached to a belt from the reading table. Seconds later, a small rectangular box flew through the air and bounced off his chest.

  Bending to retrieve it from the floor nearly proved to be his undoing. He swallowed hard.

  The word DRAMAMINE was emblazoned in orange across the lightweight paper box, along with all manner of words and instructions in print so small he could barely read them. He’d never seen the likes of such print. Or such packaging. He opened the box and slid a silver card from it. The little yellow tablets lay in perfect rows inside tiny, clear bubbles on the card. He shook it, but nothing happened. He emptied the contents of the box, but more of the silver cards with the sealed-away pellets fell out.

  “What the devil?” he grumbled to himself.

  Shaelyn sighed and swung her leg from the chair arm to stand. She slapped her book on the desk and snatched one of the cards from his hands.

  “Here.” She pressed two of the little bubbles with her thumbs. The pellets shot through the other side, landing neatly in his palm. “Use water this time.”

  She stuffed the cards back into the box, picked up her book, then flopped back into the chair, both legs draping the arm this time.

  He swallowed the nasty tasting specks with plenty of water, then picked up the box and examined it again. He pulled out the cards and studied the paper-thin silver backing. He pressed on the glass-like bubbles, amazed that the substance seemed flexible rather than breakable. A little yellow pellet clattered onto the desk.

  “If you lose those, bubba, you’re out of luck. I guarantee the local apothecary doesn’t carry them.”

  He chased the errant medication across his desk, then tried to put it back in its bubble.

  “Where did you obtain these, if not from an apothecary?”

  She turned the page of her book, never looking up.

  “At a Stop-N-Shop in 1999.”

  He should have known better than to ask. Watching her ignore him, he decided to humor her.

  “And what, pray tell, is a stopenshop?”

  She lowered her book and stared at him.

  “It’s a store,” she said with exaggerated patience, “where you stop, and then you shop.”

  He st
ared back at her and clenched his jaw.

  “Thank you for such an eloquent explanation.”

  She threw down her book and jumped to her feet.

  “Well, hell. Don’t expect me to play along with your patronizing games. You don’t believe I’m from 1999, so don’t ask me to be understanding while you have a good laugh at my expense.”

  She yanked the box of medicine from his hand and waved it under his nose.

  “Where does this look like it came from? Have you ever seen anything like it?” She pulled a silver card from the box and shoved it so close to his face all he could see was a silver blur. “Have you ever seen one of these? They’re called blister packs.” She turned the card over and held it out so he could focus.

  “This silver stuff is called foil.” She flipped it over. “These clear blisters are made of plastic. And these,” she shot two of the pellets from their bubbles, “are called pills, not pellets!”

  She tossed the two pills into her mouth and washed them down with his tumbler of water.

  “And look! Look!” She flipped the box on its side and pointed to letters and numbers engraved in the thick paper that made up the box.

  EXP. 06/01

  “That means the shelf life, the effectiveness, of these pills expires in June of 2001.”

  He just looked at her.

  She grabbed the leather pouch and dumped its contents on the desk.

  “Look. Look at all of this. Have you ever seen anything like any of this?” She held up a gold cylinder. “Lipstick. It’s makeup. Watch.” She slid the top off the cylinder, unscrewed a peach-colored stick, then ran the stick across her lips, leaving behind the color and a very attractive moistness. “And this!” She picked up a red and white rectangle with Dentyne printed across it, which she ripped open and pulled a smaller paper-covered rectangle. She peeled off the paper and shoved the contents into his mouth.

  “Chew it,” she ordered, then put one in her own mouth. “It’s called chewing gum.”

  While he tried to chew and swallow the tasty morsel, she picked up another silver card, but this one had no blisters. Instead, the word Mastercard was printed boldly across it, with a series of raised numbers across its width.